


Voyeurism (Or, Three Times Daisy Watches Coulson)

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, Director Daisy Johnson, Established Relationship, F/M, Masturbation, Phil Coulson's ass, Shower Sex, Voyeurism, conveniently placed holes/cracks in bathrooms lol, some consent issues but Daisy's a relatively conscientious person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 00:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15158930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: Does what it says on the tin. Daisy semi-accidentally finds some convenient structural flaws that give her a peek at Coulson. Pre-season 2, then alternate season 4 and 5....It’s not exactly on purpose, except that it kind of is, but she leans in to press her eye to the crack in the wall, and there’s Coulson standing in front of the sink. He’s still fully clothed in his t-shirt and jeans — and it’s slightly bizarre to feel a pang of disappointment at that — but she watches as he leans forward and looks at himself in the mirror.





	Voyeurism (Or, Three Times Daisy Watches Coulson)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



1.

They’ve barely talked in over a month except about the bathroom, the tile choices, the tub they painstakingly picked out. It’s ended up being the two of them doing the renovation, somehow, something that no one else wanted a part in.

She misses him, which is a weird thing to think since he’s been right next to her, helping her paint and lay down grout and watch YouTube videos on plumbing. But there’s something _wrong_ with him, and he’s here less and less, and the boundaries of their relationship have shrunk to conversations about paint and tile.

And because she’s just that pathetic, just that in need of _home_ and of _normalcy_ and, yeah, she can admit it, of _Coulson_...she loves it, looks forward to it. To painting, to tile, to conversations about jets in the bathtub.

(Coulson obviously wanted them, but he argued that they’re an extravagance. Honestly she had agreed, but she put up a spirited debate anyways because he _does_ want them, so she wants them for him, but also because that’s just what they are, now. Two people who playfully argue about jets in the bathtub and pretty much nothing else.)

Today, they’ve been working on the back-splash, which is finicky and going extra slow. For her part, she’s been moving at a snail’s pace because when they’re done with it, they’re pretty much done and she’s not sure what they’ll become if they don’t have the bathroom renovation anymore.

(Sometimes it feels like a lie she tells herself, that she and Coulson used to be more than this, because she has a hard time putting a finger on it, on what it is that they used to be. But she swears — she swears — it was more than this.)

They stop after two hours of laying tiny tiles, packing up tools and grout and sealant.

“I think I might take a bath,” Coulson says, and she nods because now that they’re almost done with the bathroom, now that their extravagant tub works, it makes sense that he’d want to use it. Her brain stalls a little on the idea of Coulson taking off his clothes to get in a tub, but mostly she just nods and gathers their tools.

Except, when she turns the corner to stash their tools in the small supply closet that shares a wall with the bathroom, she can see light pouring through a crack in the wall, a spot where one of them (probably her) made a gouge in the drywall. It will get covered by the back-splash, she’s pretty sure, but it might need more repair. So, obviously, she leans down to check.

A totally reasonable move.

She leans down enough to tell that the crack is actually a hole in the wall — something that will definitely require some drywall repair — and then...she keeps looking.

It’s not exactly on purpose, except that it kind of is, but she leans in to press her eye to the crack in the wall, and there’s Coulson standing in front of the sink.

He’s still fully clothed in his t-shirt and jeans — and it’s slightly bizarre to feel a pang of disappointment at that — but she watches as he leans forward and looks at himself in the mirror. She can’t see his face as he leans forward, but she can see the way he grips the vanity, see the way he looks like he’s in pain.

There’s something uncomfortably private about watching him examine his face like this, peering into this intimate moment, but she can’t turn away. He tilts his head and examines the line of his jaw — she can just make out the sharp edge from her vantage point — and then he sighs, leans forward on his hands, head bowed over the sink.

And she’s felt a lot of feelings about Coulson these past months. She’s been angry — _furious_ — and lonely and tired and scared, but right now she’s just sad. If she could, if they still had the kind of relationship where it was allowed (if they ever had that kind of relationship), she would hug him right now.

He tugs off his shirt while she thinks about the kind of comfort she wishes she could offer him, and she sees his stomach — firm, only slightly hairy — and then his chest. His body is nice, the thought barely has a chance to register and anyways she’s always known that, and then she’s staring at _it_.

His scar. Gnarled and shiny and pinkish white. She’s seen pictures of it — had been neck deep in his files and medical records so of course she has, she’s seen most of his body in medical photos, has seen his _dead body_ and his living one — but it’s different like this. It’s different when it’s flesh and blood, when it’s this quiet, intimate moment, more intimate than they are.

Coulson runs his fingers along the scar, like he might be able to erase it, and she wishes they had _ever_ had the kind of relationship where she could touch it, touch him, where she could tell him…

(She’s not sure what she would tell him, actually. But she’s thought about it a lot as she’s looked at his files, thought about the way him dying has been so _good_ for her life personally, how if he hadn’t died she’d be actual for real dead or in SHIELD jail or in a Centipede lab. She wonders if he resents her for that, for benefiting so much from the worst thing that ever happened to him.)

Maybe she wouldn’t tell him anything. Maybe she would kiss the scar, she thinks. She would press her lips to it and he’d be able to tell…

Coulson’s hands drift over his belt, and Skye pulls back from the crack in the wall, a sudden flush on her cheeks.

She backs away, turns her head away from Coulson’s body and towards what she’s going to do to help him, even if he doesn’t want her help.

 

2.

“I’m gonna, shower,” Coulson tells her, head poked through the adjoining door between their hotel rooms, “then order dinner?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, and she tries not to watch as he tugs the knot out of his tie, but it’s hard to pull her eyes away. In most ways, she likes his recent look — no ties, no suits — a lot better, but something about Coulson in a suit, Coulson in a tie, hits her in her gut.

She’s gotten really bad lately — watching him too much — and she swears at some point he’s going to call her on it. But since she came back, since he’s no longer the director, since they’re just two agents on the road a lot, it’s gotten hard.

Really, really hard.

“Unless you want to get dinner first?” He looks all concerned, which means she’s being noticeably weird, so she tries so hard to be normal except she’s sort of forgotten what that is.

“Go ahead,” Daisy says, smiles at him in a friendly way that definitely doesn’t say ‘I’m struggling not to sexually harass my fellow agent.’

He nods and backs out of the room, but the adjoining door stays slightly cracked because of course Coulson isn’t concerned that she’s going to leer at him while he undresses for his shower.

She thinks about it, though. Coulson pulling his tie all the way off, the slip of fabric from around his neck. His hands working on his belt, sliding leather apart, the way his slacks would fall and bunch around his ankles.

(No, he wouldn’t let them just fall, she decides, he’d pull them off nicely and immediately hang them, like he’d done with his suit jacket. She’d watched him take it off and then ran into her room, trying not to look like she was running away from him.)

She imagines him hanging up his pants while wearing only boxer shorts, imagines him kicking those off and being naked on the other side of the wall. With the door open. So that she could see, if she stood up from the chair and walked over to peak through the _open door_.

Daisy swallows and stands up, but pointedly does _not_ look at the adjoining door, and instead walks to her own dark bathroom and closes the door so that there’s at least one closed door between her and his naked body.

Which makes it truly perfect that a moment later, she can see an obvious stream of light through a hole in the wall.

And it’s like...she tried. It’s like she tried and like the universe is telling her to look anyways, so…

The stream light comes from the side of her mirror — it would be unnoticeable if the light was on in her bathroom or if the door was open — and she leans in to see, only to find herself peering directly into his shower, through what she guesses is a crack in his tiles. As she watches, he pulls back the curtain to reveal that he’s still wearing boxer shorts in a pastel plaid, and he turns on the shower.

Everything is foggy for a moment, and then the curtain pulls back again and he’s there, standing just outside the shower totally naked. Coulson, it turns out, has a really nice ass. Which she’d guessed, granted, but without anything covering it, it’s high and round and tight and she really wants to put her hands on it. And then _that’s Coulson’s penis_ , is all she can think, soft and pink and surrounded by dark hair and _right there_ — she pulls away for a moment, draws in a breath.

She feels a tremble in her hands and then she looks again, even though she knows she shouldn’t. Thankfully, his back is to her gaze, so what she sees is water running down his shoulders and the dip of his lower back and the perfect curve of his ass. It’s hypnotic — the way water flows over his skin, the way suds of shampoo slide down his back, making even his pale skin look dark in comparison. It’s captivating — Coulson’s shoulders, and the scar on his back, and the freckle (or maybe it’s a mole) just below his left asscheek.

She wants to touch it — his freckle and his scar and his shoulders and all of him.

When he turns next, he’s scrubbing himself, his penis covered by a washcloth, and she can’t decide if she wishes he’d drop the cloth or not. (Somehow all of this feels innocent as long as she’s not staring at his penis.)

He turns back around, finishes scrubbing his arms and his chest as she stares at his ass.

And then, as she watches, Coulson slides his hand down his belly to his cock. She can’t see it, but it’s obvious what he’s doing, obvious that his hand is gripping what must be an erection, now.

Suddenly, it all feels too much, too sordid, and the tremble in her hands and the heat in her cheeks is too much to handle.

Daisy pulls back, stricken with the thought that she’s going to have to go into Coulson’s room and order take-out Chinese. She’s going to have to watch him shovel chicken fried rice into his mouth and try not to think about the freckle on his ass.

Hands still trembling, she strips down and sets her own shower to cold. Really, really cold.

 

3.

It’s still early when Daisy returns from a morning training session, sweaty from working a bag, but she likes going down to the gym before everyone else is awake. Even moreso now that she’s the boss.

(It’s still weird, being the boss.)

Once the bedroom door is closed behind her, she pulls off her workout clothes, kicks the sweaty cotton into a corner, and turns to the en-suite bathroom where she can see light coming through the door, slightly ajar. Moving on soft feet, she sneaks to the door and peers in at Coulson standing naked in front of the mirror.

She watches appreciatively as he finishes shaving, the last careful stroke of a razor against his jaw, and then splashes water over his face. His ass looks amazing as he bends over the sink, and she grips the edge of the doorframe to stop herself from just walking in and grabbing it.

Once his face is dry, he stands in front of the mirror again, looking at himself. His right hand moves to his chest, fingers tracing over his scar, but not with revulsion — with something more thoughtful. And then both hands move over his chest, circling his nipples, his eyes following the progress of his fingers in the mirror.

It’s...really hot. She can see his hands moving and see the arousal in his face and in his cock, which grows slowly as his fingers move. Silently, she wills him to move his hand down his body, and as though he’s listening, he does. His left hand keeps brushing circles around a nipple while his right smooths down his belly to wrap around his cock, now fully hard.

It makes her whole body clench, watching him touch himself — watching him watch himself. His left hand falls from his chest to brace on the vanity in front of him, and he leans forward, just right to emphasize the dip of his lower back and the curve of his ass, and starts to stroke himself, hand moving slowly up and down his cock.

He looks so good like this, and she can’t believe that before him, she never knew how much she likes to _watch_. As she keeps watching, Coulson slows his hand, clearly pulls away before he gets to close, and then takes the few necessary steps to turn the shower on, definitely bending over more than he needs to and definitely wiggling his ass at her.

She smiles, shakes her head because her love of watching is matched only by Coulson’s love of being watched.

“You knew I was watching,” she says from the door.

He nods, turns a grin back at her without standing up.

“I heard you come in.”

He keeps bending over, though, as though getting the water temperature perfect is very important, so she steps into the room and up behind him, presses her hips against his ass and curves her fingers around his hip bones.

Coulson groans, a helpless little sound as he plasters himself backward against her, and she smiles at how much he likes it when she pays attention to his ass. She likes how well they line up like that.

(They line up well a lot of ways.)

“Wanna get in the shower with me?” He asks the question as he wiggles his butt against her, and Daisy laughs.

“Yeah,” she sighs, though she can’t stop herself from giving in and groping him a little more, first, hand sliding up and down his cock and then back to squeeze his ass, to draw a little circle around her favorite freckle.

He’s attentive in the shower in a way she’d never have imagined herself liking as much as she does — he likes to wash her hair, to comb conditioner through, to massage shower gel across her body.

Today, though, when his soapy fingers slip between her legs and he presses up against her, she pushes him back.

“I want to do you,” she says, and her whole body is heavy with arousal, but today _this_ is what she wants.

He’s easy to shampoo, and he curls into her as she massages shower gel down his body, is hard in her left hand as she slides it across his cock and moves her soapy right hand back to press fingers against his ass.

“Okay?” She asks into a kiss as the pad of her thumb presses against him, barely inside him, and he groans his approval.

“I wish we kept lube in the shower,” he says, almost intelligible, into her mouth.

Daisy laughs and makes a circle with her thumb, stimulation without penetration, while moving her left hand faster over his cock. He comes so easily — pliable and trusting and comfortable in her arms. It’s her favorite part, when he’s heavy against her like he just knows she’ll prop him up when he’s not able to stand.

He kisses her, deep and easy as he comes back to himself, as he regains his balance and looks at her like she hung the moon.

“We have a meeting in twenty, Agent,” Daisy tells him, one last easy stroke over his mostly soft cock.

“You?”

“Later,” she tells him and shrugs because, at least for today, this feels like the best possible way to start her morning.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, gets one more squeeze on his ass as they climb out of the shower to start the day.


End file.
